


And I'll Wait A Thousand Years

by ActualPrincessMagnusBane



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, I reject your canon and substitute it for my own, M/M, Multiple POV after a point, Not Canon Compliant, Pan doesn't die, Pan is Rumple's big brother, Peter Pan is not Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold's Father, Redemption, of a sort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:46:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualPrincessMagnusBane/pseuds/ActualPrincessMagnusBane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic had a price, of course. It always did. He never thought it was too high to pay until he watched his time run out and saw every way in which he had failed. <br/>Non-canon compliant story of how Peter became known as Pan and how he proved to the world that villains could get their happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As The Clock Ticks

**Author's Note:**

> I hate the canon Pan backstory with a fiery passion. So I made my own. Angst abound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been toying with this idea for a while, and the more I considered it the more I couldn't ignore the ideas forcing their way to the forefront of my mind.   
> I don't know how long this will be and there won't be a regular updating schedule. Still, I'll get chapters to you as quickly as I can.

The passage of time had always been of little consequence to him. He held no more desire to capture those fleeting, perfect moments and encase them in gold and beautiful memories than he did to hold on to the seemingly everlasting minutes of pain and fear and uncertainty. They were one and the same, in the end. Both temporary, both blissfully forgetful.  
Seasons changed and began anew, people came and went, and the sun rose and set like clockwork, that constant tick-tick-tick that he could never quite escape. The loss of his mother seemed like yesterday until he realised he could no longer remember her face. He found he lost little sleep over it. 

There would be constants, of course. As sure as the sun rose did his father enter, stumbling through the old door frame and making it the ten feet to his bed before slumber would overtake him. Sure as the bells tolled noon would he be gone again, barely sparing a glance and a handful of words for his eldest, washed away in the midday light and promises of ale and women. He'd grown used to it, but he couldn't quite recall a time when he wasn't. 

The other constant was hope, and it came in the form of a child. Like him, the boy was small for his age - shorter than would be expected of a seven year old and not quite slight enough to be considered truly malnourished. 

The day he learned that he couldn't trust constants didn't seem any different than any other day.  
Dawn had awoken him, and he'd lain in his small, shared bed and waited for the tell-tale signs of muttered swearing and the permeating smell of cheap alcohol. It didn't fail him. He didn't acknowledge his father as he came into sight. He never did, and the elder man never seemed to feel the need to change their tentative routine.  
The snores came next, and Peter sat up in his bed, glancing to the side to reassure himself that yes, of course Rumple was still there. Where else could he possibly be?  
He busied himself with breakfast. It was soothing, consistent, and it didn't require any real consideration. He'd make breakfast, wake Rumple, and then get started on the lunch he'd take with them when they left.  
They'd spend the day in the village. He'd visit the spinsters and they'd let the two brothers waste hours in their garden. As the sun hit its highest point, he'd return to the cottage. His father would be stirring and Peter would ensure there was a meal waiting for him before he disappeared again. He wouldn't tell him where Rumple was and his father wouldn't ask.  
When his father was happily nested in whichever tavern or brothel took his fancy, Peter would go back to the spinsters. He'd take Rumple into the forest and they'd sit. They'd read together and Peter would do everything he could to teach Rumple the things he should be in the schoolhouse for. 

As the sun set and Rumple's belly started grumbling, they'd go back to the cottage that never quite felt like home and he'd make dinner. Check on the few animals and clean whatever mess his father had created in his stupor. Rumple would be in bed by the time the sun faded from view and they would be safe. Another day gone and nothing would be gained, but nothing lost either.  
Darkness would enshroud them and if he was up to it, Peter would read by candlelight dim enough to not disturb the slumbering child.  
When he could no longer force his eyes to stay open or his brain to concentrate on any word or letter, he'd sleep too. And sometimes, he'd even sleep well.  
And then dawn would break, and the cycle would begin anew.  
It always had and he'd never really cared to consider it. Not until they day it didn't.  
The pale morning light lived up to its reputation and woke him as it barely began to creep across the horizon. He lay there, waiting. Waiting.  
Waiting.

It took time, of all insignificant things, for his conscious mind to catch up to what his subconscious had known for an eternity. There would be no stumbling, no quietly declared profanities, or solid crash as a stool hit the floor and stayed there.  
He wasn't coming home.  
He sat there until Rumple's soft grumbling caught his attention and forced him to recall that somethings wouldn't change. That some things couldn't.  
There were no words spoken that morning, and the silence hung over the cottage like the breaths held before a hanging.  
He gathered Rumple and left after breakfast, but he didn't stay with the spinsters.  
The barkeep hadn't seen his father since the day's earliest light and had no qualms shrugging his shoulders and telling the boy to get out unless he wanted a drink. The guards were more receptive - they listened to his soft-spoken explanation and one even removed himself to speak to their commander. For once, he felt every second of the minutes he waited.  
There'd been no accidents reported, the guard had told him with reassurance in his voice and pity in his eyes.  
Peter didn't care if it had been an accident or if his father had just decided not to come home. It made no difference, not really. He thanked the guards, genuinely, and removed himself. He ignored the whispers behind him.  
Rumple was waiting for him on the small near-rotten step of the spinsters’ home. And it was a home, not like their cottage. Here, the residents were more than apathetic ghosts.  
He didn't explain to Rumple. There was no need. His brother had never been stupid. The solemn air of the spinsters would have been more than enough to tell him what he needed to know.  
They were hand-in-hand as they walked into the house, and Peter wasn't sure which of them needed the reassurance more.  
The spinsters surveyed them and there was the pity again.  
He decided he hated that look.  
The game they wordlessly decided upon that day was playing pretend. If they didn't mention it, it held no power over them. And nothing would have to change.  
At least for the day. But that would be enough.  
The stars began to litter the sky on by one and Rumple drifted into a restless sleep. It would have to do, but it pained him to see the burdens of the world weighing on someone so small.  
It was the first night he left the house after dark since his mother had died.  
He didn't go far- he couldn't. Not with the dangers that could befall Rumple were he to stray too far from the cottage.  
He sat down on the coarse grass and finally allowed himself to consider. They'd need to survive, and he'd have to provide for it. He'd need to ensure that there was food on the table and wood in the fire. He had no other choice.  
A pile of torn, broken grass grew behind him and he extended his hand, allowing himself to feel.  
The anger, the bitterness, the betrayal, and everything else he pushed to the back of his mind. He let it course through him and felt the long forgotten crackle of power extend to his fingertips. He was too far to see the cottage by now, and he'd been gone too long.  
He loathed being so acutely aware of the minutes tick by.  
As he willed it, it appeared- a ball of light just large enough to illuminate his surroundings but small enough to suspend itself above his open palm.  
It had been a long time since he had allowed himself this. His father had never trusted his magic. He'd feared it even, and his mother wasn't around to convince his father that their child wasn't a monster.  
He stopped after she died. He couldn't force himself to keep going in secret when his father's words began to ring almost true.  
There was little choice now. There were people, merchants and lords and kings, who would pay for the privilege of his magic. They would pay well, and he would be able to ensure that Rumple never went to bed hungry.  
He had no doubt that that was worth being a monster.  
The house hadn't stirred since he'd left it. There was no marauding bandit hiding in the shadows to steal what little they had of value. No cutthroat standing above their bed, with his knife to Rumple's thin neck.  
The world was quiet here, as it always was once the darkness came.  
He'd take solace in it tonight. The rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the old cuckoo clock would not falter and he could almost believe that not everything would change.


	2. The Price of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic always came with a price. It wasn't long before Peter knew what that price was.

He'd not been wrong - magic always came with a price. The more spells cast and potions brewed the higher that price became. A gold coin became five, became ten, became twenty. As he grew, so did his magic grow with him.  
He was no longer twelve years old, and the pitying looks that stalked him through the streets had long since stopped. He was capable, he'd proved as much. And he was clever.  
Clever enough to know exactly what a man was willing to pay for the gift of magic and cunning enough to get it.  
Rumple didn't like it- he said as much every time Peter brought him to the spinsters and held him close, promising to return within the week.  
He never broke that oath. No matter the job, no matter the customer, he'd not be gone more than seven days. By his fifteenth birthday, he'd established a new routine. It settles in his bones and he could scarcely recall a time when life was anything otherwise. He watched Rumple grow in body and mind, beginning to ask questions he hardly had the heart to answer.  
"Why do you have to go?"  
"We have enough money, I know we do. You've been saving whatever you can."  
"Why can't you stay? Just this once?"  
"Why can't you look at me anymore?"

It was Igritte, the older spinster, to whom he eventually broke.  
She'd startled him, appearing in the cottage that he still couldn't see as a home, at barely noon. She was meant to be with Rumple. Teaching him how to spin, they'd said.  
"I know what you're doing."  
The slight draft turned him to ice and he froze, unable to tear his gaze from the spell he was constructing.  
"I know the things you've done. And the things you'll continue to do."  
There was no venom in her voice, no judgement. But he could still hear it, behind the soft-spoken sympathy. He could still hear the pity.  
"I can't imagine what you're talking about." He didn't want to talk about this. She couldn't know that his spells were meant for spilling blood and breaking bone. She couldn't know that he'd watch the light die in the eyes of a dozen men as their flesh split and their breath shortened.  
She couldn't know he'd do it another dozen times more.  
She rounded the table and pulled the only other chair to sit across from him. He willed himself not to look. Not to see the hatred, the fear.  
What he found when he couldn't avert his gaze any longer was worse. He saw understanding.  
"I know you, Peter. I know this isn't who you are."  
He held back the bitter laughter, allowing it to burn his throat and numb his uncertainty.  
"It doesn't matter who I am. This is what I have to be. If those men need to die for Rumple and I live, so be it. I won't believe their lives are more important than ours."  
She was taken aback by his tone, and if he were to tell the truth, so was he.  
He wasn't used to hearing his voice so cold.  
He could feel it again- the moments passing.  
Could hear that infernal cuckoo clock tick-tick-tick behind him.  
She left eventually. There were no more words shared between them, and she only looked at him with sadness.  
He followed her at twilight, slowly making his way through the village. Stopping to speak to some merchants he'd had dealings with and collecting gold from would-be-murderers.  
A whispered conversation in a decaying alleyway led him to a tavern. He recognised it- of course he did. The barkeep hadn't changed in those five years. He wasn't sure if anyone else had ever stood behind that counter. They nodded at each other as he passed. The barkeep knew why he was here. It had been the same reason now as it had been a hundred times before. He grabbed an abandoned mug of ale from the counter, quick as a fox and harder to catch. He doubted the owner would miss it. 

A man with thinning hair and a well-worn cloak had squirreled away at a table tucked into a dimly lit corner. Peter wasn't surprised that he was paranoid. He weaved his way through the tables and the patrons. He felt his foot catch a stool as he approached the thin-haired man. Stumbling, the mug tipped to the side, and he heard the swearing begin.  
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, boy?! Didn't your daddy ever teach you manners?" The man's breath was foul and the ale was sinking into the cloak that could once have been green.  
"Look at what you've done!" He held back a grimace as spit flew from the man's mouth. His features schooled themselves into an expression of contrition, and he bowed slightly towards the man.  
"A hundred apologies, sir! My father always tells me that I'm sinfully clumsy. I'll buy you a drink in penance!" He was laying it on a bit thick, he thought, but the man was soaking it up.  
"Yes, you stupid boy, fetch me their best ale," the man said, straightening his back and, to Peter's disgust, preening.  
Nodding in what he assumed was an acceptable ashamed manner, he scarpered towards the bar. The barkeep was hesitant to serve him, but there was no avoiding what would happen. Either he could give Peter the drink, and it could be done easily, or the tavern could burn.  
Ale in hand, Peter slipped a vial from his cloak. The contents mixed easily, and no one could be any the wiser.  
The thin-haired man smirked as he returned, and Peter refused to give into the shiver fighting its way up his spine. He placed the mug down harder than was strictly necessary, and the feeling of his skin crawling receded as the man's leer was directed towards the ale.  
"Good boy, I may like you yet," he drawled. Peter nodded, ignoring the eyes that followed him as he moved to the other side of the tavern. He waited for long enough to watch the man take his first sip and slid out through the door. It didn't matter if he drank anymore. It would be enough. 

Watching Rumple's face light up as he approached the spinsters house never made him feel any better. His brother sat on that same rotting step he'd sat on every evening for five years and looked at him with pure adoration.  
"Can we go home now, Peter? Drizella is cooking her stew again." The disgust in Rumple's voice forced a chuckle from Peter's mouth. It was nice, really, to know that there was still something pure in the world. Someone who could be so utterly disgusted with the slimy concoction Drizella called stew but so ignorant of the ever increasing blood staining his brothers hands. 

The weight of the gold in his pocket seemed ten times heavier as he entered the house. He was welcomed joyfully by one, having to deny the invitation to stay for dinner because "no, really. I promised Rumple we'd read tonight."  
He was all too aware of Igritte's eyes following his every move like a hawk stalking its prey.  
They escaped eventually. Peter would be eternally grateful to the sisters that helped him care for Rumple when no one else would, but he needed to be away. He needed to be in that cottage, with the dim candles and old bed that he still shared with Rumple even though there were two. For the night, they could be normal. Ordinary and unexceptional. Two brothers ignoring the world outside of them until the sun came up and reality came crashing down.  
They read for hours, taking turns reading the words aloud. Rumple's childish lilt reading too quickly for his mouth to catch up and Peter's quiet almost-whispers annunciating each word carefully, as if they were holy.  
When slumber came, it was to two children, both and caught up in a daydream and pretending they could believe in miracles.

He could taste copper when he woke.  
Raising his hand to his mouth, it came away scarlet and the irony was not wasted on him. He extracted himself from the blanket and his brother's arm with silent precision. He stood in front of the cracked mirror with an equally cracked bowl in his hands. One mouthful of blood was followed by another, and then another. The water he drank did little for the taste.  
He heard Rumple stir behind him, a faint change in his breath and a slight groan. A quick way of his hand and the bowl was clean, evidence wiped away as if it had never been there.  
It wasn't the first time he'd done this, and it wouldn't be the last. Peter had known for a long time that magic always came with a price, but Rumple didn't have to.


	3. As Long As The Sun Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets a lesson in mortality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neverland is almost here, I promise.

His sixteen birthday found him days away from home and only half a notion to return. He'd be gone longer than a week this time, he'd told Rumple. He'd be back as soon as he could be. Behave for Igritte and Drizella. Make sure you keep up with your studies.   
He'd meant to leave for home yesterday, when the spells were cast and potions devoured and the heart of a traitor returned to the betrayed. 

He'd not intended to retire downstairs in the tavern he was staying in, but with a woman's broken hearted screaming echoing in his mind, he longed for little more than something to ease his frantic mind. The ale had been adequate and the food was enough to reenergise him. He'd leave in the morning. Rumple wouldn't miss him for another night.   
In the morning, he'd be responsible again. The practical and reasonable big brother he'd come to know half of himself as. The other half, well, the other half would be sated with ale and wine and a night free from the burdens of home.   
He'd drink away the bitterness and convince himself that it wasn't Rumple he hated and maybe by the time dawn broke, he'd believe it.   
The ale was far less pleasant when it was coming back up. He'd expected it, really, somewhere between his sixth and ninth mug. It was an inevitability, really. A teenager trying to keep pace with seasoned soldiers was doomed to fail from the start.   
He didn't mind, really. He'd never drunk enough to be ill before, and it was liberating in a way. He barely noticed the blood mixing with the viscous remnants of alcohol and poor decisions.   
He woke past noon and dallied for near an hour trying to make the perfect potion to cure a hangover. He felt better by the end, though he couldn't quite fathom why his father would waste his life like this. Feeling his fears and doubts wash away alongside the gentle calming of a mind that always worked just slightly too quickly was soothing, but he wasn't sure the radiating aches were a fair trade. 

When the world no longer spun and the voices from downstairs had ceased to be war cries, he left. He'd brought little with him on his journey, and felt no need to see anything return with him.   
He'd stop at the stalls in the square before he began the arduous voyage home. He had time, and he couldn't return to his brother without a present to apologise for his extended stay.   
The sun was bright, blindingly so, but the potion had done the trick and the nauseous pit in his stomach eased to its usual level of tolerable. A quick peruse of the market place found a doll that would suit. It wasn't an expensive thing, but Rumple had never held any worth in lavish material goods. The wood was well carved and the small clothing well stitched, like something loving parents would sit beside the fireplace and craft for a child they wanted the world for. He felt no need to argue price with the seller, he didn't ask for much and Peter had more than enough to throw it away on what his father would have deemed frivolities. It would make Rumple happy, so it would be his.   
He considered his trip home, wondered if he should get supplies to last now or insist that the carriage stop in the villages along the way.   
The sun became stifling and he fought to hold onto his thoughts as they clouded with pain. The cobblestones were surprisingly well maintained, he noticed, moments before he hit them. 

It was dark when he could finally will his eyes to open. An entire day, wasted. Rumple would worry. He was surprised to find that someone had spared the time or the sympathy to bring him to a physician. People back home couldn't have cared less for the street urchins littering the alleyways. The idea of someone selfless enough to carry an unconscious stranger halfway across the town was as foreign as any land he had traversed. The physician hadn't known what to make of him, at first. He was, or should have been, a perfectly healthy teenager. He was not malnourished, he was not uncared for, he did not have to sleep without a roof over his head.   
There was no reason for his blackout, he'd said. Peter got the impression he wasn't quite used to having his patients tell him what was wrong.   
It was the magic. It had to be. First, the coughing fits, then the blood, then the fatigue. Not a morning would go by without first washing away the overwhelming taste of copper and filing it away in the part of his mind he refused to acknowledge on anything but his darkest days. It was only right that his body showed the same decay he forced upon his heart and soul with every life torn from the earth. 

He didn't stay any longer than was absolutely necessary. The physician had recommended, implored him even, to stop using magic. The damage was too great, too severe, to heal. It was going to be the death of him, but if he stopped, he may live to see twenty.   
He toyed with the notion during his long days travelling. They stopped rarely and went through the night, but it was still nearly four days before he saw the familiar walls and gates encroaching over the horizon. He'd be there soon. He'd be home and Rumple would be there, waiting. They'd read tonight, he decided. And tomorrow he'd worry.   
Tomorrow he'd face his own mortality as a boy of sixteen years.   
Tomorrow, he'd begin making preparations.   
He supposed he should have been surprised when he turned onto the dirt track that the spinsters’ house stood at the end of. His brother, sweet, dear Rumple sitting on the step that had more cracks in it than not and let out an unholy creak as his brother rose from it. Instead he was saddened.   
He caught Rumple as he threw himself into his arms. It was close- Peter was still weaker than he cared to acknowledge and keeping his balance was close to an exercise in futility.   
He held Rumple close and tried to make sense of the child's excited babble - "You were gone for so long," "I missed you so much," "You won't have to leave again, will you?"   
"I thought you weren't coming back."  
He felt his heart shatter.   
This child, this small, innocent, beautiful child who had known such abandonment and fear. And Peter was powerless to prevent it occurring once more.   
"I won't leave you Rumple. As long as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, I will never abandon you." His voice was barely above a whisper and the lie almost caught in his throat.   
He wanted it to be true. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. He tasted the remnants of the blood in his mouth and the pain of the relentless pit in his stomach. It wasn't the pain, but the unfairness that dazed him. This child would make a liar of him, and he'd have to reconcile himself with the simple fact that he would never be quite the same boy that Rumple remembered.


	4. Lovely Thoughts and Empty Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neverland awaits and Peter has never felt so uncertain.

He'd avoided Igritte for weeks before she cornered him. They'd not spoken since he'd returned after nearly two weeks of absence, and he'd not brought Rumple around to their home. It was selfish, he knew, but if these were to be his last months, he'd spend them with the only thing he had ever truly cared for.   
He didn't work in those weeks. They were for lethargic days where neither boy would go further than the small fence enclosing their meagre land, telling tales of grand stories and wishful dreams.

As everything inevitably does, the fairy tale had to end. His weeks of silence had caused whispers and it became more and more difficult to ignore the cawing of the ravens and the flash of parchment amongst their obsidian feathers.   
He had work to do, and he did not have the time to idle. Not if he intended to insure that dear Rumple would want for naught but his absent family while Peter crumbled to dust in a grave next to his mothers.

He walked Rumple through the village and every step he took felt more and more as if he were making his way to the gallows. He set the boy off just before the dirt lane, close enough that Rumple would come to no danger in the last feet of the journey but far enough that prying eyes couldn't see the elder. 

By nightfall, he was drained of all but the bitterness that kept him on his feet. The haze that settled around his mind was not quite painful, but was far from pleasant. The previous hours had witnessed the boy strong-arm his way through a bout of work that would normally take near a week with nothing but his strength of will and spite to get him through the day. He'd had to start using magic to transport the ever growing pile of coins in his pocket back to the cottage. He was hardly above charging extortionate prices for his magic, and few were foolhardy enough to turn his rates away. Magic was in short supply there, and there was little choice when one was in need of a spell. 

He'd not reached the edge of the town when he heard a familiar haggard voice call his name. His eyes rolled before he could make the effort to stop them - it was only a matter of time before she caught up to him. He was fortunate to have had such a significant reprieve from her watchful eyes.   
"Dare I ask how long you've been waiting for me?" he drawled, seeing no reason to hide his impatience.   
"Not as long as you'd expect, but no doubt longer than you'd like," the crone said, looking at him with what was almost distaste.   
"Any notable moment is longer than I'd like, Igritte, when it comes to unwelcome interruptions."   
She barked a laugh that sounded almost akin to a death rattle.   
"Whenever did you get so rude, boy? I know your mother taught you better."  
"My mother's not around to be appalled by my manners, is she?"   
"Lucky for her."   
She was grating on his nerves and she was well aware of it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and sleep before the toil began anew.   
Igritte seemed to notice that he had tired of the banter that was only half in jest.   
Her deep sigh echoed off the stone walls and he would have sworn he heard it from every direction.   
"I'd like to do you a favour, Peter. You and your darling brother. He deserves better than what you can give him here."  
He rose an eyebrow at her. The idea of such a hag being able to do him any further favours than keep Rumple from trouble was laughable.   
"I've travelled these lands in my youth, boy, and there are many who care to cast a raven when incidents of note catch attention." The look she gave was utter exasperation laced with unwanted concern.   
It made him distinctly uncomfortable, and he fought to make sure it would go unnoticed.   
The silence threatened to suffocate them both, neither willing to reveal their cards before the other. Igritte broke first, as Peter knew she would. She had an invested interest in him that he managed to quell in himself.   
"A child of sixteen years at most, passing out without an iota of warning nor concern for those also in the vicinity. A dear, caring merchant who carried him all the way across the village to ensure that the boy got the medical attention he so clearly needed. Magic poisoning is the rumour- the wicked spells backfiring and slowly destroying their caster from the inside out. Does this sound familiar to you?"   
There was no cause for a response, Igritte knew the answer. There was no point in humouring her attempt to get him to admit to his own woes.   
He heard that sigh again and was tempted to match it with one of his own.   
"What's your great plan, Peter? Work yourself closer to death and deprive Rumple of his final comfort of family? He deserves better than that." The words were spat, more poison in her voice than in any of his concoctions.   
"And what would you suggest? I let go of my magic, the only marketable skill possessed in our pitiful excuse for a family and watch as he starves? I'll waste away regardless, and it will be sooner rather than later." He was no better, he supposed. His tone was hardly light.   
"I know that you've been keeping all the coins you can spare. I imagine it's quite the small fortune by now." She had a point, but it wasn't worth allowing her the notion of the upper hand.   
"Of course, but it's not infinite. What happens when the gold runs dry and I'm not here to replenish it? He's still but a child, and he has no magic. He'll survive, for a time. The gold will keep him going for the next year, maybe two. But what about the day it runs out? And the day after that? And then the next? I won't condemn him to death so I can live." He could control the tremor in his hands, but it required more thought than he was comfortable granting to such a menial task.   
"There's plenty of talent in that child. He could spin for-"  
"Kings and Queens one day, I know. You've said as much. I'm sure that will be of comfort to him as he starves in a workhouse."  
"He'll get by, Peter. As long as he has you, he'll get by."   
He'd never felt the desire to punch an elderly woman before, but the thought was growing more appealing with each passing moment.  
"I'm still dying. There's no way to stop it, only prolong the inevitable in a pitiful attempt in futility."  
"But-"  
"He is not your ward, Igritte, and this is not your decision to make. Don't presume to think otherwise," he snapped, feeling the last shreds of his patience wear too thin to salvage.   
Her eyes held sorrow and regret as he met them and he sensed the fire die in her.  
She averted her gaze first, gnarled hand dropping to her worn purse. There was a faint clink of coins before she withdrew, a solitary white bean clutched between her twisted fingers.   
"If it's magic that you hold so dear, take this and I'll pray that the price is more affordable than your life." She held out the bean and Peter surveyed it with curiosity.   
"What magic is this?" He allowed the curiosity to bleed into his voice.   
Filled with ire or not, the potential to learn more about his trade was something he couldn't refuse.   
"This bean can open a portal. Take you far away from this land, even this realm. There is a place, far, far away from here, where you can live. And Rumple will not be left alone."  
She tugged his hand out to drop the bean into it, closing his fingers around it.   
"You can do far more with it than I ever could, Peter. For both of your sakes, go." Her smile was sad, but no longer pitying.   
"How will we get there? I know not of this place."  
"Just think lovely thoughts. Both of you. Of family and safety and home. You'll get there. I promise."   
He knew there were more questions to ask, more answers needed before he could responsibly make such a crucial decision.   
But, if just once he allowed himself to be truthful, he didn't want to die. 

-  
Rumple cared little when Peter told him they were leaving. He'd miss Igritte and Drizella, but he'd have his brother. If it meant that he'd not be left to wait each time for his return, then he'd follow him anywhere.   
Peter knew best, after all, and Rumple trusted him completely.   
They gathered what little the intended to carry with them to this new land. Peter had told him little, but he suspected that perhaps his big brother knew less than he'd admit. He didn't ask for fear that Peter would second guess himself and allow his doubts to prevent him from ever leaving.   
The details were irrelevant- Rumple would trust in him enough for the two of them. Rumple had more he wished to bring than Peter. His doll was an obvious choice, and his mother's old pan flute. The one she'd promise to teach them both to play but never got the chance. Perhaps they'd learn to play it themselves.   
He gathered his belongings quickly, but Peter was still ready before him. He didn't make comment of his brother's clear anxiety. It would only make it worse. He moved his hand to take Peter's and lead them both from the cottage to the clear field surrounding it.   
"We can go now," he said softly, never loosening his grip on the other's hand. Peter smiled at him, and it was only slightly strained.   
"Think lovely thought, Rumple," he reminded, tossing the bean that hadn't left his hand in front of them. Rumple felt the wind grow more aggressive and felt no fear as the ground opened up and swallowed them.  
-

It was to the sound of birds that Peter woke. It baffled him at first- he was usually awake before them. He felt the cool sea-breeze on his skin and his mind caught up with what had transpired. The sand was coarse and almost damn under him, and a dull pain in his back made him realise that he must have hit the ground with a considerable amount of force. He sat up, running a hand over his face and trying to comprehend his surroundings. The beach was like nothing he'd ever seen before. White sand spread out in every direction and the waves carried on for eternity. He felt movement beside him and he startled out of his reverie. Rumple was on him seconds later, sending them both toppling back to the ground.   
"We did it!" Rumple's voice, so full of childish wonder and joy, warmed Peter's heart in a way he'd not felt since he was a child sitting on his mother's lap.  
He couldn't even hope to bite back the laugh that forced its way out of his mouth. He held no real desire to either. 

Their first days on the island passed in a whirlwind of laughter and exploration. It didn't take Peter long to realise that they were the sole inhabitants, and only slightly longer to realise that his magic wasn't accompanied by the feeling of being carved into pieces.   
It was stronger here too. Like the earth itself moved with him and length him power. They wanted for nothing in those days. Whatever they wished for appeared in front of them without ceremony, and hours were spent with Rumple watching in awe as Peter used magic to play with the light, the trees, and the water.   
They'd been their nearly a week before Peter felt the presence of another. It was still dark in the treehouse he'd made with magic. It wasn't difficult to leave without catching Rumple's attention. The boy had cast off fear and suspicion, and was nigh-impossible to wake as a result.   
He reached the ground tried to shake off the feeling that he was being watched. As he looked around the base of the tree, he realised that he'd never been so aware of shadows before.   
It was something so trivial, so insignificant, that Peter barely noticed it. A nearby tree, not much more than a sapling, cast two shadows. He figured it as something he would never have noticed in another land, but the island had proven unusual. The magic was a part of it, flowing through every living thing that inhabited it. It radiated from every tiny flower and every looming oak.   
He stood stiffly, as rooted to the ground as any plant as the shadow moved. It crept across the ground towards him slowly, like it had no need to rush. He'd never seen anything like it and desperately tried to quash the growing unease he felt searing its way up his spine.   
Then the shadow separated itself from the ground.  
He watched, shell-shocked, as the shadow formed itself into a shape. It was human, close enough to one. Like a drawing that had been smudged around the edges just enough for them to become out of focus.   
It opened its eyes and they were an empty void of startling blue.   
"Who are you?" he asked, trying to appear calmer than he felt.   
"I am the sole inhabitant of Neverland." The Shadow had no mouth, but its voice was clear and precise.   
"Neverland? The island?"   
"It's true name, yes. But you don't belong here. Adults have no place here, and you fancy yourself one of them."  
He took a step back as the Shadow edged closer to him.   
"I can't leave. I don't know how, and I'll die anywhere else." He refused to plead with a shadow.   
"There is one way you can stay in Neverland. You must let go of what's holding you back."  
"And what's holding me back?" he asked, tentatively.   
The Shadow's gaze moved to focus on the treehouse, and the pit in Peter's stomach grew.   
"Rumple? How could Rumple be holding me back?" It was ridiculous. Rumple was everything to him.  
"A child can't have a child," the Shadow took on an almost mocking tone, "if you want to make Neverland yours, there must be nothing holding you back."  
The Shadow dissolved, fading into the darkness until Peter was left alone once more, with nothing but doubt as a companion.   
He made his way back to Rumple and lay down beside him.   
He lay for hours, and sleep never came to him. 

The first signs of light had started to illuminate the treehouse when Rumple woke. Peter watched as his brother yawned and blinked the remnants of sleep from his eyes.   
He knew he'd made his choice.   
This life had never been kind to him. It had taken his mother and lured away his father with promises of something better. He loathed understanding the man, but he could no longer pretend that he could live like this.   
It occurred to him, no matter how much he hated it, that part of the reason he was so unwilling to let go of his magic was that it was the one thing he could truly call his own. Something he would not be forced to sacrifice.  
He could no longer pretend that he could stand the idea of losing anything except that part of himself.   
He saw the shadows begin to bleed into each other and knew he was out of time.   
"Peter? What is that?" Rumple asked, innocence and trust in his eyes as they flickered between his brother and the Shadow.   
"A friend," Peter whispered, and the Shadow reached for Rumple.   
His brother struggled- of course he did. He'd expected nothing less.   
It didn't make his cries any easier to hear.   
"No, Peter, don't let it take me!" Rumple's pleas were like knives in his flesh.   
"I have to."   
The spinsters would look after him. He had no doubt about that. They'd keep him safe. After all, this was Igritte's work.   
Rumple's screams as he was dragged from the tree house would haunt him until time ran still.   
He shook himself off, stumbling to the doorframe and tried to catch one last glimpse of his brother before he was lost to him forever.   
There was no one for him to see, the Shadow was gone, and with it, his last tie to a land that was not this one.   
He looked at the horizon, the green trees and turquoise ocean and noted with bitter irony something that he noticed their first morning in Neverland.   
Here, you needed only wish for something to have it. He wondered if it was his fault that the sun was rising in the west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiger Lily next chapter?


End file.
